You Wouldn't Know
by NeeNeeChan
Summary: Yuki is tired of fighting with Kyo, but is there any way to stop it? And with graduation approaching, what is Kyo going to do? Need suggestions for a title.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** It's not mine. The characters belong to… I forgot and I don't want to go look, but it's not me.

Dark. And cold. The stone floor beneath him dug into his knees, leaving marks that would surely have shone purplish-red if exposed to more light than was provided in this dim and dismal room. As it were, had his eyes been open, he would scarcely have been able to pick out the pattern of the hard floor beneath his knees, much less to see the door, both his escape and his torture, his heaven and his hell. The door was never locked, and frequently left cracked open, more to remind him of the freedom he couldn't have than out of a real need for light.

Today it was closed, barring him from any contact with the outside world. The lack of light, the unending darkness, was infinitely preferable to that single thin strip of light, a beacon reminding him both that there is hope and that his situation is hopeless. But it also usually meant that today would be a bad day. The walls of this room were soundproofed, and with the door closed, virtually no sound could escape. He was reminded of this frequently, told that the room had been thoroughly tested for its soundproofing, that no one would hear him scream. Knowing the nature of the owner of the room, he was not hard pressed to believe this.

But his eyes were closed tightly, blocking out everything around him, imagining he was somewhere far away, somewhere, anywhere, but here… His exhaustion, having accumulated over the past few days, was near overwhelming, and his eyes being already closed, he began to drift, dozing lightly. His somewhat dreamlike state produced visions of freedom and things thus associated: sprawling fields, butterflies, the stars, and the face of the one who, to him, represented the very core of freedom.

His eyes flew open as the door swung inward, flooding the small room with light. He recoiled deeper into the corner in which he was huddled, deeper into himself, as the figure - indistinguishable in the sudden, blinding light - advanced. He was frightened, but only vaguely. He'd long ago stopped caring what happened in this room, long ago stopped telling himself it would be over soon, and he could go home, back to some semblance of normality. No, he'd long ago given up on that. It would never be over. He would never be free.

A pair of shoes stepped into his field of vision and stopped. Shoes? He'd never known him to wear shoes before… A hand reached out, causing him to flinch as it settled on his shoulder. The hand was cool and slightly calloused, far removed from the icy smooth touch he was accustomed to. His head jerked up just as another hand joined the first, gently pulling him to his feet. He smiled faintly in relief as the face briefly came into focus, just long enough for recognition. The hands left briefly, and he swayed on his feet. One returned, steadying him, as the other continued with its original task. Soon, the chains that had bound him to this hell fell away, and his savior stood, beckoning him forward, toward the door. His first few steps were awkward, the result of a stiff and aching body. Stepping into the brightly lit hallway, he raised a hand to shield his eyes. The taller man walking beside him offered a pair of sunglasses, which he gratefully accepted, thinking briefly how amusing it would have been under alternate circumstances.

The room into which they entered was located at the end of the long hallway, as far removed from his prison as was possible. The walls were painted a blinding white, not softened at all by the harsh fluorescent lights, but anything was an improvement. The door clicked shut behind him, and he turned slightly to catch the clothes that had been carelessly tossed his way. He dressed quickly as the man collected his coat and keys, and soon they were once again walking down the hallway, all the way to the other end this time, and out into the bright sunlight of late afternoon.

The car ride was silent, save for the soft classical music playing in the background. Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu, he thought, and Pachelbel's Canon in D.

The time passed in a blur of vague relief, and soon, the car was pulling to a stop. He opened his door and stepped out, knowing the man would not follow him. He went to close the door, but paused at the last second. Leaning back inside the car, he reached up a delicate hand and removed the sunglasses, folding them gracefully and placing them on the passenger seat. He smiled softly, a small, sad smile that didn't reach his eyes, a quiet thank you to the first person who'd ever cared what happened to him.

He closed the door quietly, having received, as always, a rather impassive response. The car drove away and he watched the receding taillights until they were no longer visible; only, he knew if he squinted, they would be tiny pinpricks in the distance, just barely there. He sighed, not bothering to make the effort, and turned to face the house. He took a few measured steps toward it, not walking quickly but not lagging, head held high and shoulders squared, trying to appear as he always did, cool, calm, collected, when inside he was fighting not to fall apart, fighting to remain in control, to keep everyone believing that he was fine.

And he was, he told himself. He was absolutely, completely fine, and anyone who said any different needed to take a second look, because who could say he wasn't fine when he could smile day after day and not break from the effort it took? How could he not be fine when he could dredge up small kindnesses for those in need, when he could excel in school and uphold his duties as the leader of the student council with hardly any trouble at all? No one could say he wasn't fine, because no one saw past all that. No one saw the pain and emptiness in his eyes, the way his smile never reached them. No one noticed his fingernails, kept too short so he wouldn't bite them in agitation or distress. No one noticed that he seldom sat with anyone at lunch time, begging off on account of nonexistent student council duties so he could retreat to an empty classroom where no questions would be raised when he didn't eat. No one noticed that he'd gotten thinner, his clothes looser, the hollows of his cheeks more gaunt. No one noticed the slight furrow between his eyes from frowning too much; nor did they notice the lack of the small lines around his eyes that indicated frequent laughter.

No one noticed, because no one cared. Their own petty happiness meant more to them than the thinly veiled suffering of another. They should have seen through it, he knew they should have, but they didn't, and it was better that way. As long as he could go on being the perfect, charming Prince, everything would be fine.

The door of the house slid open soundlessly. He stepped inside and toed off his shoes before turning to close it. His hand closed over the handle and began to slide it back the way it had so recently traveled when it was ripped from his grasp. Standing just over the threshold of the now fully open door was someone he didn't particularly want to see right now.

"Yo, rat."

Kyo smirked at him, trying to rile him, to anger him enough to draw him into yet another fight. He was so tired of this, so tired of only fighting. Why couldn't- He shook his head. No, no chance. He sighed again, following the other outside.

**A/N: **Sorry the ending was kind of abrupt… I couldn't think of anything. ' Anyways, review please! If I get good reviews, I'll post more. I think the next chapter will be more Kyo… But only if you review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** See first chapter.

**A/N:** I am _so_ sorry! It took forever to finish this one! But for those of you that have been waiting, here it is…

Dark. And cold. The turmoil swirling inside him tightened its grasp on his heart and mind, plaguing him with unwelcome thoughts and feelings. He'd tried to repress the fear, the despair, but had learned long ago that it was useless, he'd never win. Creeping along the edge of his consciousness, a void opened hungrily, waiting for its chance to spring, waiting for him to let down his guard, to admit defeat.

He saw it all as though it were another he was watching, saw the great black chasm, empty of all joy, empty, even, of sorrow or anger, threatening to devour the last traces of fading hope. He saw, too, the despair edging in, pushing back the void, leaving the mind host to the battle tired, worn-out. But he saw also the faint flickering of hope, a tiny spark that gave more than a little comfort and courage. Hope meant he wasn't gone yet, he was still alive, could still hang on a little longer to the life it was almost time for him to leave behind. That tiny spark, just one small, insignificant burning ember, ignited a fire inside him, a flame burning brightly, vanquishing the emptiness to darker places where it watched hungrily from the shadows, eyes glittering as it waited for the fire to burn itself out, waited for its next chance to take control.

But the flame burned brightly, the mind racing, turning in circles to face various plans in turn, rejecting each as it took center stage, and suddenly, the utter hopelessness of his situation overwhelmed him. He drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly, a poor substitute for the real embrace he'd never share. He rested his head on his arms, his face hidden from a world that couldn't care enough to look, wouldn't bother itself to make the effort, hot tears soaking into his sleeve.

The only sound on the rooftop was that of small animals scurrying through the brush, collecting their young and settling the family down for the night. Gradually, the birds quieted, dropping out one after another until the evening was still and quiet. Nothing stirred, save a few leaves disturbed by a gentle, cool breeze, chilling him slightly. He curled farther within himself, seeking warmth, reluctant to return to the empty house.

He raised his head, not bothering to wipe away his tears as he turned his face to the moon, the stars, to the awesome sight that was the night sky. Faraway stars twinkled against a darkening sky, the sun setting quickly behind distant mountains, drawing with it the curtain of light that, for half of each day, concealed the beauty just beyond earth's reach. He treasured the sight, for it was one he might never see again, but at the same time, it only served to remind him how short his remaining time was, how little freedom he had left.

Every night, he came up here to think, to reflect on days past and on things he still needed to do, and the stars thought with him, reflected with him. They shared in his pain, his grief, his anger, taking some of it upon themselves so as to relieve the suffering of one of their children, one of the few left who even noticed they existed. It was a beautiful thing, to relinquish some of the suffocating feeling, to feel a brief relief from his suffering. He never wanted to give this up, never wanted to resign himself to a cold, dark, starless fate.

But it didn't matter what he wanted. He'd never had a say in his own life, and he never would. And it wouldn't matter at all by the end of the year. Nothing would matter. Sometimes, he wondered if anyone would miss him, if anyone would mourn the loss of his presence. If anyone would cry for him. He smiled bitterly. She might, but no one else. And after some time, she wouldn't think of him so often, wouldn't cry so much. After some time, the last ode to his memory would die away, fading with the ticking clock and the sounds of a busy life. He would be forgotten.

Would anyone care when he was gone? No, he thought sadly, no one really would. Kagura might be sad for a while, but soon, she would realize that she didn't really love him, never had. She would find someone else, someone worthy of her intense affection. Haru might miss having someone to fight, but not for long, and not deeply. Shigure and that damn rat would probably be the first to drag out the streamers in celebration. Shigure's precious house would, for the most part, finally be safe, and there would be no one left to annoy His Highness.

And he wouldn't be there to get in the way of Tohru's happiness anymore. Like he was now. But it was all just a cheap attempt to shield himself from the truth that one day, perhaps before but hopefully after graduation, Tohru would officially be with Yuki. He'd tried to hold it off as long as he could, telling himself he could handle it if he didn't have to see it, but it was to no avail. The thought of them together hurt more than it should have.

Sometimes, he wished he could have that sort of relationship. But in the end, he realized he wasn't good enough for that. He didn't deserve happiness. All he was worthy of was a small, dark cage. No human contact, and definitely no love. Sometimes, when he was starting to feel the familiar despair creep in, he allowed a tiny flower of hope to blossom within him. If he couldn't evade the cage, maybe at least his last days of freedom could be happy. And then, just as quickly, he crushed the fragile bloom, watching as the tiny petal fragments blew away, leaving him cold and alone, but planting themselves firmly as the seeds of hope in others' hearts, and maybe, just maybe, those others would nurture the fragile pieces, help them to grow into a beautiful flower, and maybe their hope would be worth something one day.

The sound of an approaching vehicle drew him from the depths of his thoughts, pulling him back from the brink, from leaping off the precipice into a sea of despair, just in time to save him from drowning, from losing himself forever to the hungry crashing waves. His eyes opened slowly, and he realized for the first time that they had been closed. Time had passed, for the sun was now completely gone and the twinkling stars shone brighter. He sat up, stretching still limbs and listening to joints popping and cracking. How long had he been up here, anyway? He looked at his wrist, forgetting that he didn't wear a watch. It didn't matter. Time had ceased to be of any real importance to him long ago.

His eyes sought the source of the noise, settling on the car idling before the house. It was a rather nondescript black car, but that was beside the point. The car was hardly of any interest to him, but whenever it was there, Yuki was usually involved. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen him since dinner Friday. It was now Sunday. Gone a whole weekend, and returning with Hatori? An irrational feeling swelled up inside him, one he refused to name though a whisper of _jealousy_ floated through his subconscious mind, not quite close enough to the surface to be heard, and he quickly tamped it back down wondering briefly what it had been. Pity? Anger? Jealousy? No, he shook his head. It was none of those. He was just upset because they hadn't fought all weekend. It was an integral part of his days, and any change in routine was an upset.

The car drove away, taillights fading slowly in the growing dusk. But rather than go inside immediately to escape the chill night air, Yuki simply continued to stand there, staring after the receding taillights. Slowly, he turned to look up at the house, and the stars glinted off his hair, making him seem for a brief moment in time somewhat ethereal. He surprised himself when he ducked out of sight before Yuki could see him, but found he was content simply to observe his rival, and did not want to spoil the moment with more pointless fighting. A rare moment of peace had descended upon him, and he was loath to leave it for something so trivial.

A soft breeze danced through his hair, and on the ground below its twin danced through Yuki's hair, blowing it briefly into and then out of his eyes, and he felt a rare moment of connection. For one of the few times in his admittedly short life, he felt a bond with another person. He smiled bitterly at the irony. Only through pain could he find that connection, for it was more the pain in Yuki's eyes, a distorted reflection of his own, than the wind that drew them together and united them in the single condition of suffering. It was a silent pain they shared, a silent longing for something neither would ever have, for to speak the longing would be to desecrate it, to make it less than it was. Only in silence did their pain mean anything.

He watched as his sworn enemy sighed, looking down to the ground as he began to walk toward the darkened house, slowly, as though he were as reluctant as the observer to break the moment. But of course, he did not know he was being watched, knew nothing of the one on the roof, uncharacteristically quiet as he simply watched the rat approach their home, a supposed haven. And maybe it was, for all who resided there save the one. For the one - him - it was simply a place to stay before imminent confinement. His eyes hardened. No, the rat knew nothing of the fate of the cat, knew nothing of the pain he suffered with every day.

He jumped silently to the ground, his legs automatically bending to absorb the sharp impact with feline grace. The door was just closing as he reached it, and of its own volition his hand shot out, slamming the door open and nearly ripping it off its hinges. Yuki looked up, startled and trying desperately to hide it, and he fought the urge to grin.

"Yo, rat."

He sensed the change before he saw it, sensed the exact moment Yuki pushed everything else aside and focused only on him, on the anger. And as much as he refused to address his own motivation, he allowed that he was secretly glad Yuki had pushed it all away. Because now that the rat no longer looked as lost and lonely as the cat felt, he could put that unnamed feeling swelling in his chest. For just that brief window of time, he could focus on the fight, only the fight. No matter how much it might pain him to do so.

**A/N:** Again, I am _so _sorry this took so long! But thank you to my one reviewer from the last chapter, **mousecat**. And to the rest of you, please review… I actually do read them…


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** See first chapter.

**A/N:** Again, I'm really sorry that it's taking me so long to post these chapters. The only time I really have to write is in Spanish class, and, well… it's Spanish, what can you expect? But anyway, here it is…

Fire burned through his veins, igniting his blood as his heart rate and breathing began to speed up, muscles tensing as he readied himself for the fight he so craved. Half his mind retreated into a corner and slammed the door, barring any of the filth from entry, trying desperately to preserve the last part of himself that was truly human. Actually, half was being too generous. He'd spent so long splitting his mind like this, losing a little more each time, that there was now, in all actuality, precious little to protect. He hated it, hated having to break his mind apart every time, but it was a necessary measure he had to take. He couldn't handle the strain of the two conflicting forces struggling for control over his mind. No one could. And he was reluctant to relinquish that continually shrinking part of himself that could still feel, could still care what happened to him and the rest of the world around him in this miserable existence, the cruel farce that passed for his life.

And so that small part of him was fated to such a confinement as it now suffered, forced to watch as the darkness took over, enveloping him in a blanket devoid of feeling, unless numbness had recently been redefined to represent feeling, a control that the human part of him hated. He hated the way everything about him exuded coldness, hated how the real him - the warm him - was locked away inside a small closet, no windows to see out of but forced to accept an awareness of what was happening, what that other, darker part of him was doing. And yet, he was helpless to stop it, for if he were to leave his safe haven, he would risk being devoured by the animal inside him, the darkness that was even now scratching at the door, trying half-heartedly to get inside and consume what was left of his humanity. Nothing was worth that risk.

Fists flew at him, legs occasionally kicking out in an attempt to either trip him, severely wind him, or knock his face in, whichever happened first, for surely the others would soon follow. He blocked mindlessly, every now and then throwing back a halfhearted blow. He was disgusted to feel the satisfaction flood him as he landed several hits, knocking the other to the ground. He almost immediately regained his footing, a small consolation to the aggressor's already ravaged state.

The feral gleam in the other's flashing red eyes unnerved him, but not for the reason most would think. He was not afraid, for fear had long since died and given way to the suffocating coldness he so hated. No, he had no fear for his physical well-being. He knew he was stronger than the other, knew he would not be harmed. Rather, he was vaguely frightened by the simply fact that this boy - his sworn enemy, his hated adversary - was quite obviously fighting what he himself had struggled so hard to bury. The revelation that maybe they weren't nearly as different as he'd always forced himself to believe shook him to the core.

Despite not wanting to hurt the other too badly, he knew this needed to end. Lashing out with his right fist, his lips curled up in a sneer as he connected with Kyo's solar plexus, a solid hit that sent his opponent flying some distance away to land in the dirt face down. He did not rise. Turning away, he offered one last parting shot, something he hoped would rouse the stupid cat and make him fight back, for as much as Yuki wanted to end it and leave, the darkness was starving for a fuller fight. "You should know by now you'll never win, stupid cat." The figure did not move, and despite an overwhelming urge to walk over and kick his downed opponent - or help him, he didn't know which - he forced himself to turn and walk away.

With each step, the small part of himself locked away grew stronger, until finally, by the time he'd reached the top of the stairs, he was back in control. He signed in relief, glad to have finished his internal destruction for the day. He hoped. But honestly, the cat was so unpredictable he'd probably attack him on the way to the bathroom. At least he didn't have to sit through dinner.

He walked quickly down the hall, pausing outside both of the house's remaining inhabitants' doors only long enough to ascertain that neither was home. The noted taped to his bedroom door (and to Kyo's, too, from the look of it) affirmed what he had guessed, that Tohru was staying the night at Hanajima's and Shigure was with Ayame. He left the note where it was, eager to reach the sanctity of his room.

He closed the door softly behind him, giving no hint as to his inner turmoil. But once he was safely concealed within his personal haven, the mask he so carefully cultivated each morning shattered, the tiny pieces falling to the floor, piercing his feet as he walked over them to his bed. He collapsed upon it, drawing his pillow to him, holding it in the hopes that some warmth might return to his glacial heart.

No feeling penetrated the icy barrier, at least not anything he wanted. There was only a cold sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. God, how he hated the coldness, as much a part of himself as his eyes or his hands, and yet both were farther removed. He was nothing but an empty shell, the echoing footsteps of the shadow of a ghost flitting here and there among the tiny reflective shards littering the dark passageways of his once bright and unbroken soul. His days of youthful innocence and joy were over, had been over for longer than he'd have liked to believe, had been over, in fact, almost his whole life. Such was the burden of the curse. Children born into this cursed family had no chance at life, not as it should be lived, no chance to be happy, fulfilled, no chance to feel joy or contentment or warmth. No chance to love.

No, the only thing that awaited the cursed Sohma children was a loneliness so profound it stole his breath and caused his heart to clench painfully with the knowledge that he would never be permitted to feel.

One hand curled into a fish over his heart, almost as if trying to comfort the broken organ, as the other punched his pillow angrily. God, how he hated this family, cast into an eternal damnation by vengeful spirits thousands of years old. He hated every single member of the zodiac, hated their unending loyalty and obedience to their god, but above all else, he hated himself for succumbing to their ideal image of the rat as cold, unfeeling. He hated that the only expression of anger he was allowed was to punch a pillow in the privacy of his bedroom. He could never display these overwhelming feelings, especially not in front of the family, for then what would they think of him? Their ideals would come crashing down, and he would be caught in the onslaught. It was not a pleasant thing to imagine, so he forced himself to keep a tight rein on his emotions, allowing himself only small expressions of mild feelings like annoyance or slight frustration, while inside he prayed that the unfeeling mask would not mold itself to him too perfectly, would not take the little feeling he tried to hard to preserve. But when he was alone, he let go, allowed the floodgates to open and all the bottled-up feeling to come pouring out, flooding his tattered soul and eyes alike. Only here, alone, could he put aside the princely mask he wore and not worry about appearances.

He clawed at his skin, trying to scratch away the thin veneer that hid his ugliness, trying to destroy it. He hated the false perfection, hated the way people looked at him, like they could see nothing but that brilliant persona. And he hated how he let them. He deliberately led them to believe that he was that perfect person, but it was only an attempt to shield himself from the disgust they would surely express if they were to discover what it was he kept so carefully hidden.

He hated it, hated everything, and as much disdain as he felt for the hatred, a small part of him welcomed it, rejoiced in its presence, for the hatred fueled his thoughts, his actions. The hatred kept him alive, refusing to let him sink into the depths of despair, refusing to let him succumb to its wishes, refusing to let him float away into the comfort of unfeeling darkness.

The hatred refused to let him die, and that may have been what he hated most.

**A/N:** Oh, man… I can't see where this is going… I finally just read over it, and it looks like this whole three chapters (and probably most of the fourth one, too) covers about half an hour. --' I was just thinking the other day, and I wanted to ask you guys a question: Would it make more sense if I put the two different angles together in one chapter? Like the current Chapters 1 and 2 would become Chapter 1, and 3 and 4 would become 2, and so on? I don't know… Anyway, I'm rambling… Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** See first chapter. 

**A/N:** I'm really sorry this took so long, but school started, and I wasn't quite expecting so much work the first month. AP classes move faster than I remember… Anyway, if anyone's wondering, I tend to write in sections (sometimes weeks or months apart), so that's why sometimes my writing doesn't flow as well as it should. Anyway, after such a long wait, I hope you enjoy reading this…

Fire. The most beautiful thing there was, for who could resist that glowing flame, the smoldering ember? Who could resist that blazing brightness, come to push back the dark and free the mind from eternal damnation? The fire was his savior, and he would hold nothing against it if it just so happened to consume him. No, the fire could not be blamed for something so trivial as his demise, for it was not the true cause. Rather, the fire had saved him, had helped him through his darkest hours, his darkest days. He looked to the fire in times of trial, for it offered far more advice and comfort than any living thing could ever hope to provide. Only through fire could he be cleansed of his monstrous misdeeds. And that in itself was one of the reasons he so loved the fire, this ultimate forgiveness of all his sins. The fire didn't care that he was filthy, that his soul was so blackened one could scarcely make it out beneath all the grime.

Fists and feet flew at him, lightning fast blows that left him gasping for breath and fighting for balance, too fast. He blocked precious few of them, but those he did were a source of some pride. The blows he suffered, though, fell on numbed flesh, for this was the effect of these so frequent fights on him. He hated them, for they kept him from feeling. He craved them for precisely that reason. To be momentarily freed from the suffocating feeling of imminent confinement, of being eternally unwelcome and unloved, never a part of the family to which he belonged in blood if not in social custom - to be freed of this was worth any amount of physical suffering that could be inflicted upon him.

He craved this, needed it as much as air or water, needed to feel the wind in his hair, the blows raining down upon him, the absolute lack of any feeling that wasn't strictly physical. He supposed it was, in a way, sort of masochistic, to so enjoy every fight though he rarely landed any blows and never failed to lose. But the hard punches and swift kicks that left him bruised and battered were, really, the only close contact he received. Sure, when he was little, Kazuma, in his role as surrogate father, had occasionally held him. And now, with Tohru living under the same roof, he often found himself the recipient of several accidental embraces a week. And Kagura, of course, with her forceful affection. And once in a while, when Black Haru got out of hand, the two would fight. But none of those could satisfy his craving for abuse. No, they simply left him wanting more, wanting to be pounded into the ground, beaten so badly he could hardly move. No, only one person could satisfy that craving, and he was one of the easiest to incite to violence.

He was disgusted with himself. How could he be so needy? Was he so weak and pathetic that he could cherish such rough, uncaring touches? It was disgusting.

He hated himself for it, for this need to belong, this aching desire to be accepted, wanted, needed. Loved. Why couldn't he just accept his fate? He was not permitted to be happy, much less to love, and those who dared to care even in the slightest about him were punished. Was he so damn disgusting and shameful that he had to be condemned to a life of miserable loneliness? But even as the question was born, so the tiny shreds of self esteem, resurrected by hope, were cast down into flames, smoldering faintly as the fire flickered out, leaving only the ashes of his childhood dreams. Reality came crashing in, flooding his soul and effectively putting out any remaining embers that may not have burned out the first time - though, of course, there were none. Yes, this was what he deserved, this and nothing more. No warmth or affection dared befriend him, for to do so would be to risk being stamped out themselves. And who could blame them? What in its right mind would risk its very existence for a lowly monster such as he? And as far as he had seen, warmth and affection were very much in the right state of mind, if a bit whimsical.

No, he deserved only the cold, hard ball in the pit of his stomach every time he saw a couple holding hands and laughing together, the knowledge that he could never have someone he would trust with his life and to whom he would give a tiny piece of his soul. He could trust no one that deeply, for fear of abandonment lurked just around the corner, always ready to jump out and remind him (as though he could really have forgotten) of its presence. He didn't deserve the happiness a companion would bring. He deserved only the sharp sting of loneliness, and the dulled blows now raining down upon him.

The eyes before him flashed with anger and - was it pity? The look was gone quickly, stored away somewhere behind the icy mask. He was caught so off guard by the uncharacteristic expression that he faltered, and it was to his great relief that Yuki's face soon fled his vision, taking with it the strange expression, as he was knocked yet again to the ground, harder, this time, than usual. But he was too preoccupied to care at the moment - or, for that matter, to even notice. What had he seen for the briefest of moments behind those cold eyes? Completely winded, he lay still, more concerned with his thoughts than the now-forgotten fight. For a moment, had he not known better, he would have sworn Yuki could feel. He banished the thought irritably. Of course he couldn't. He was the ice prince, the perfect being to whom all gazed in aw and wonder. What use had he for feelings?

And that, more than anything else, more, even, than the constant taunting him and ignoring him and treating him as something less than human, more than everything Yuki had or had not done, was the source of his hatred. He hated the damn rat for his ability to just shut down, to turn off his feelings (not that he had any, of course) at his convenience. He himself had to suffer countless agonies; was the rat so much better that he should not share in his pain? Even now, when he had clearly given up the fight, Yuki was calling out to him, taunting him, trying to get him to resume fighting. But for once, he didn't rise to the bait. For the first time, Yuki's insults simply didn't bother him. He should have been ecstatic at this, the fulfillment of one of his fondest wishes for himself since childhood, that he would someday be self-assured enough to just not care. But instead of the expected joy, he felt only a cold emptiness.

Was all victory this hollow? Surely if he were to defeat the rat in battle he would feel some great joy, an elation born of triumph? After countless years of striving toward that one, far-off and seemingly unattainable goal, he deserved just a piece of contentment, for his effort if nothing else? Did he not deserve any sense of satisfaction at seeing the damn rat finally in his place?

He laughed mirthlessly. He deserved no such thing. What he deserved amounted to a tiny cell and the enduring hatred of all those around him.

He'd long since stopped blaming the rat for his plight, as it was clearly not Yuki's fault. Likewise, he'd stopped hating his parents for giving him life. He had not yet gotten past Akito, but figured all the abuse he'd suffered at the family head's hands was justification for several lifetimes of intense hatred.

Indeed, though he kept up the appearance of hating everything and everything, the brunt of his hatred was directed inward. He hated that he felt the need to build these walls around him, barriers between his fragile heart and the cruel world of which he'd so often been warned, intended as a measure of protection but succeeding only in ensconcing him securely in complete isolation. He hated that he had begun to believe their image of him to be correct. He hated that though his freedom was on the line, he could never bring himself to truly try to beat Yuki.

But more than anything, he hated what he had done to the other boy. Once open and always smiling, Yuki had become cold and blank upon Kyo's ending of their friendship. The light that had once resided behind the rat's eyes was gone, extinguished by harsh words and violent actions, so that now they shone only with the reflected light of the world around him. Inside, Yuki had become as cold as the snow for which he had been named. And a part of Kyo had taken a sick sort of pleasure in the change, in the fact that the other boy had been just as affected as he had, that he hadn't been able to hid it as well as Kyo. He hated that part of himself, and he hated the rat for making him feel that tiny twinge of guilt and regret, but mostly he hated the world for thinking it amusing to give two lonely boys a brief chance at friendship and then to snatch it away again.

The universe was cruel, was it not?

**A/N:** Please review!


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